


i don't have a choice, but i'd still choose you

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: True Detective
Genre: Caretaking, Fluff, Hospitals, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Not Beta Read, Post-Carcosa happy ending, Romance, i'm living vicariously through my fics and dreaming about the day i can leave this hospital lmao, post-s01e08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 20:41:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10601841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: Rust wondered if he’d ever tell Marty how much this meant.





	

It had felt so good, escaping that damn place, clinging to Marty with tears still drying on his cheeks. He’d let it all out, told Marty everything that was boiling beneath his skin, and now he was running away. Not running away to isolate himself again, but running away _with_ Marty. Holding him so close, so warm, hoping that he’d never have to let go. Lips touching against Marty's cheek, accidentally brushing that stubble-dusted jaw as they staggered away from the hospital.

Rust wondered if he’d ever tell Marty how much this meant. He wondered if he’d ever _need_ to. He could still hear Marty’s words, quietly offering him a comfort he'd never before realised he craved.

_Didn’t you tell me one time... at dinner once, maybe, about how you used to ... you used to make up stories about the stars?_

Marty knew.

He just _knew,_ and maybe that was the thing that felt most beautiful of all.

 

***

 

It felt good. Then it didn’t.

Recovery wasn’t how he’d rationalised it. The pain wasn’t restricted to his wounds, wasn’t neatly contained to the stitches holding him together or the still-mending flesh beneath the taut wires. He ached all over. His hand throbbed where an IV had been stuck into him, movements of his fingers sending stabbing pain up the back of his fists when he woke up from a nightmare. The insides of his elbows stung, and he was far too old to understand how the fuck he’d once willingly stuck needles in himself just to chase a futile high. He felt ancient. Crumbling, rotting, decaying, bruised all the way down to his creaking bones.

But he wasn’t surrounded by blinding white, wasn’t pinned in place by needles and cords, and he didn’t have to listen to the ceaseless _beep beep beep_ of machines that reduced his miraculous survival to an annoyance he’d much rather turn off. When he woke up of a morning, Marty would be standing at his bedside, a cup of water in one hand and a palm full of pills. He would thrust them out to Rust, saying, _you gotta take ‘em, you bastard,_ his voice tender and fond in a way that made Rust shiver. And Rust would gripe, would bitch and moan, taking them only when Marty put his hands on his hips and looked more like Maggie than he had any right to.

 _You tryin’ to kill me with all these damn pills,_ Rust would say.

 _Yeah, whatever,_ Marty would answer, smiling, eyes soft and loving.

And Rust would not look away. He would hold that gaze, return that smile, and battle the nervousness that made his heart pound harder than it ever had before.

And he would let his eyes fall closed, let himself melt into the pillows as Marty leaned down and kissed him.

And it would all be okay.

 

***

 

Things changed, but it felt natural. They slid into place, fitting together like they'd been made for this, and when Marty touched him Rust didn't want to push him away.

He felt tired. Far too tired to be doing this, but Marty lay beside him and held him carefully, kissing slowly, hands wandering up and down Rust's battered body like he was something to be worshipped. Rust did what he could, as much as he could manage, touching Marty with what he hoped was as much reverence as he felt. They were old, now, but Rust had never felt this alive before. He knew it wouldn't have been this way when they were younger; when they were still rubbed raw by the world, angry and ready for a fight. They wouldn't have known how to give in, how to want it.

It felt strange, to admit that he liked himself better now. That he liked himself at all.

 _You feel good,_ Marty told him, helpless and laughing, face against Rust's collarbone. He was warm between Rust's thighs, and his hands were gentle.

Rust believed him.

 

 


End file.
